Voluptuaries, consumed by their senses, always begin by flinging
themselves with a great
display of frenzy into
an abyss. But they survive, they come to the surface again. And they develop a routine
of the abyss: “It’s four o clock. At five I have my abyss…”

In most intimate touch we meet,
Lip to lip, Breast to breast,
Sweet.
Suddenly we draw apart
And start.
Like strangers surprised at a road’s turning
We see, I, the naked you;
You, the naked me.
There was something of neither of us
That covered the hours,
And we have only touched each other’s bodies
Through veils of flowers.
But let us smile kindly,
Like those already dead,
On the warm flesh
And the marriage bed.